The man is a total machine. The injury to his leg barely slows him down, but I sense he is moving slower than he’d like.
Like the night before, he moves stealthily through the underbrush while I sound like an elephant crashing through without any regard for silence. I swear I’m trying not to make this much noise. Those men are somewhere in this jungle too, and the last thing I need is to let them know exactly where we are.
But it’s hard to be quiet when every twig cracks beneath my feet.
“How do you know there’s a village this way?”
“I paid attention during the drive in. There’s just the one road for miles, but plenty of small villages. Not to mention, there were bus tracks in the dirt. There’s no way to know how often the chicken buses come around. Could be once a day, or once a week.”
“Once a week?” There’s no way he’s making it a week without some kind of medical attention.
Through some miracle, Max manages to guide us out of the jungle. If I’d been left to myself, I’d probably be walking in circles, too confused to know that I did. Everything looks like everything else around us. Sure, there are small differences here and there, but the jungle, as varied as it is, looks like one solid patch of green and brown.
When we come to the road, Max holds up a hand, telling me to stay back. I crouch at the edge of the thick vegetation while he moves stealthily to the narrow, deeply rutted, dirt road. He glances up and down, then waves me forward to join him.
“We take the road. The jungle’s slowing us down. It means we’re exposed, so we need to be careful and keep an eye out.”
“Okay.” Suddenly, the jungle sounds like the better plan.
“They’re looking for you, but Knox left a path headed away from here. Hopefully, that buys us time.”
Personally, the idea of Benefield getting his hands on me turns my stomach. I’d rather put a bullet in my head than suffer under that madman’s rule.
“Isn’t Knox supposed to be on his way back to us?”
“Don’t worry about Knox. He’ll find us.”
“How?”
Max reaches out and breaks the stem of a small woody plant. “I’ve been leaving signs.”
Of course. Now why didn’t I think of that?
Because, you’re not a Guardian. You’re not trained for this.
But I kind of wish I was.
I’d love to know everything Max knows. To move the way he moves. I wish I were as strong and confident like him, and not terrified and weak and scared all the time.
“These tracks are old. No new vehicles have come this way in some time. Which is good.” He crouches down, fingers brushing the dirt. “From the looks of it, a chicken bus comes once a day.”
“How do you know that?”
He shows me tracks in the ground and explains about the depth of the grooves and the way the soil’s eroded.
None of it makes sense to me, but that’s okay. Max has one hundred percent of my trust. If he told me pigs could fly, there wouldn’t be a doubt in my mind they were flying directly overhead.
Sweaty, exhausted, sleep-deprived, I’m glad we’re going to use the road. Walking through the jungle requires far more effort than I ever imagined. I’m the one slowing Max down, yet he’s the one with the bullet wounds.
This man is made from steel, and to be honest, he reminds me of the Energizer Bunny. When I want to stop, he patiently waits for me to catch my breath, but I see his agitation building.
We’re exposed and vulnerable. One of us is definitely the weaker link, and it’s not my Energizer Guardian Bunny.
Max holds out a hand. Together we head west and pray for a miracle. Meanwhile, Max tells me all about the brightly colored, retired American school buses, pimped out in garish colors and repurposed for cheap public transportation.
“There’s no hill a chicken bus can’t climb. No vehicle it can’t overtake. And when you ride in one, you’ll discover fat you didn’t know you had jiggle and wiggle.”
“Jiggle and wiggle.” I don’t believe him.
“Yeah, they’re cheap, but far from comfortable.”
“So, we just go to this village you remember and hop on board?”
“Hopefully, it’ll stop for us.” Max is flushed; the pink an unusual color on his olive skin.
“What does that mean?”
“The buses don’t always stop to take on passengers. You’ve got to run and jump to get on and jump to get off.”
“Sounds terrifying.”
“Best not to think too hard about it.”
We spend the next hour trudging along the dirt road while I envision what a pimped-out school bus must look like.
I never rode in a bus as a kid. I was Eve Deverough. My chauffeur drove me to school and picked me up at the end of the day. All I know is what I’ve seen on TV.
The ruts in the road get a little deeper, a little wider, more used. At one point, an older man heads towards us, weaving unsteadily back and forth on his bicycle. He gives us the eye but says nothing as he cycles past.
Over the next hour, we see no one. My legs ache. My feet throb. My running shoes are about done in. If I have to walk much farther, I’ll be doing it minus a sole.
But signs of civilization begin to pop up. An abandoned hut on the left. The carcass of a car pitted with rust with a tree growing out the middle of it on the right. An abandoned motorcycle with the rubber stripped from its rims is overtaken by creeping vines.
The heat builds. The musty smell of the jungle infuses the air. Sweat beads my brow and drips down between my breasts.
We start to see chickens. One at first. A few more. Then we’re surrounded by half a dozen as they peck at the dirt.
Max spies a ramshackle shack just off the side of the road. I would’ve missed it completely. He angles over to speak to an old woman with a huge gaping smile and only one tooth. He speaks in broken Spanish, gesticulating wildly. After a bit, he appears satisfied and pulls something out of his pocket. He gives her something shiny then returns to me.
“What was all that?”
“Just asking about our ride.”
“And?”
“We’re in luck.” He points down the road. “It stops up the road sometime in the afternoon.”
“How far?”
“A few kilometers at least.”
I turn and look down the dirt road with a groan. “What did you give her?”
“A button.”
“A what?”
“A button.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because it’s all I have.” When he takes off, his limp is worse than I remember.
“How’s your leg holding up?”
“Best to keep moving.” His tight-lipped expression tells me he’s anything but good, and there’s more color in his cheeks than there was a couple of hours ago.
I’m growing more and more concerned.
By the time we wander into a small, run-down village, sweat beads on Max’s brow. The limp is worse. My concern skyrockets.
The village is nothing more than a collection of shacks and lean-tos strung out along the road. There is maybe a score, or more, on either side and more people than I expect.
Despite the drabness of the structures, the people are dressed in vibrant colors. Huge smiles fill their faces, and like the woman down the road, they have gap-toothed smiles.